The Presence

by T. Davis Bunn

  Jeremy rose to stir the ashes and put on another log. “Don’t know of many things that even come close,” he agreed.

  They watched in silence for a time, until TJ looked over and found his wife smiling faintly. He felt the band of pressure around his chest ease. “What’s so funny, Catherine?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about one of Jem’s stories. You remember the day we were coming back from the boat and he told us about the two preachers going to heaven?” She looked up from the fire, said, “I bet you don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “I bet Jeremy doesn’t.”

  Jeremy feigned shock. “How in the world do you expect me to forget something as earth-shakin’ as that?”

  She laughed. “You tell so many stories I doubt you remember any of them from one day to the next.”

  “Now that is just plain not true. Fact is, I’ve been thinkin’ a lot lately about those two fellows.”

  “You have not. I’ll bet you can’t even remember their names.”

  “Preacher Jones and Father—Father Coughlin. Lately of Farmborough. What you think of them apples?”

  “Farmville,” TJ corrected.

  “Just what I said. Now, do you two wanna hear what happened or not?”

  Catherine slipped off her shoes, slid her feet up under her, reached over and took her husband’s hand, said, “What was it that baby said to you that day?”

  “Make it a long one,” TJ recalled.

  Catherine chuckled from somewhere deep down inside. “That’s right. Make it a long one. Go ahead, Jem, honey. Paint us a pretty picture.”

  “Now as y’all will remember,” Jeremy began, “ol’ Peter’s sent the two gentlemen back to kinda try on the other fella’s shoes for a while. Well, the next thing you know, Preacher Jones wakes up and finds himself in a strange white bed in a strange white room. His vision is kinda blurry, like it is after a too-long nap on a hot summer afternoon. He’s tryin’ to sort out all this jumble in his mind, and slowly the world is comin’ back into focus. He swivels his head around and sees the wife of his assistant pastor, Sister Bertha, sittin’ there beside his bed.

  “She looks like anybody does who’s been sittin’ the death watch on a friend, only to have them come back to life. Half of her wants to stand up, raise her hands over head, do a little dance, and praise the Lord of miracles. The other half figures that if she does, the pastor’s gonna get shocked out of his recovery and be gone for good.

  “So the lady leans over and says real quiet and trembly, ‘You’re in the hospital, Reverend. You’ve had a heart attack.’

  “Preacher Jones opens his mouth and says something that sounds like ‘Ngmmnghaagh’ on account of his tongue being cemented to the roof of his mouth. What he meant to say was, ‘It wasn’t a dream after all.’

  “Sister Bertha gets the message, takes a cup from the side table and helps the reverend drink. Raisin’ his head like that makes him dizzy, so he leans back and closes his eyes. Sister Bertha does what most people do when they’re flustered, which is chat away all casual, like the reverend has a heart attack the first Sunday of every month.

  “‘Everybody’s been askin’ ‘bout you,’ the good sister says. ‘The church held a special prayer meetin’ for you last night. Reverend Lee,’ which is the way she always refers to her husband, ‘Reverend Lee preached the Sunday sermon and everybody says he did a real fine job.’

  “Then she realizes the reverend might not be pleased to hear that his assistant’s already steppin’ into his shoes. So she does what most people do, which is speed up her talk to about a hundred miles an hour.

  “‘You just wouldn’t believe all the people’s been askin’ ‘bout you,’ the sister goes on. ‘Why, the Catholic minister even stood up in his church yesterday and said he was gonna convert just so he could help out. Whole town’s talkin’ about it. Hasn’t been anything like that happen since—since I don’t know when. Our deacons didn’t believe it at first. Nobody did, what with the way you used to carry on about Catholics. Rightly so, of course. Anyway, the deacons musta talked with him half the night. I think he’s called Cacklin or Conklin or some Yankee name like that. The deacons finally decided he meant what he said, and they were so impressed they’re talkin’ ‘bout making him some kinda special assistant pastor till you get better.’

  “‘Course, Preacher Jones was laying there and listenin’ to this and feelin’ like an anchor headed for the bottom of the ocean. Nope, it wasn’t no dream after all. The reverend knew what he had to do, and knew he had to do it quick ‘fore his nerves failed him.

  “He motions for Sister Bertha to help him drink again; then he manages to croak out ‘Catholic.’

  “Naturally, the good sister doesn’t have the tiniest notion what he’s talkin’ ‘bout. ‘Of course he’s Catholic,’ she tells him, thinkin’ the man must be soft in the head from the attack. She starts talkin’ real slow and loud. ‘He’s gonna convert, Reverend. Wants to become a Baptist quick as he can. I hear the deacons’ve already called a special baptismal service for Wednesday night.’

  “Preacher Jones shakes his head, gathers his strength, and whispers, ‘I want to convert to Catholicism.’

  “Well, that ‘bout knocks Sister Bertha outta the stadium. Which is quite a feat, seeing as how she weighs close on two hundred and fifty pounds. The sister looks at him a moment, realizes her chin is hangin’ down ‘bout a foot below her knees, and closes it with a snap. Bam. She stands up, pats Preacher Jones on the arm and smiles real syrupy-sweet.

  “‘I’ll just go fetch the doctor,’ she says with her mouth. Her eyes say she thinks he’s flipped his noodle. She leaves fast enough to stir up a fair-sized breeze.

  “Coupla minutes later the doctor comes bustlin’ in with Sister Bertha wavin’ her arms and flutterin’ around. She’s tryin’ to lead him and walk behind him and whisper in his ear all at the same time. The doctor’s actin’ real official-like and not showin’ how worried he is she’s gonna step on his foot and put him in intensive care for a coupla weeks.

  “So he thanks the sister real firm-like and tells her to sit down right there and he’ll be with her in just a minute. Then he steps around to the end of the reverend’s bed and puts on the know-it-all mask that all doctors get when they graduate from medical school and carry in their back pockets.

  “He flips open the reverend’s chart and stands there pretendin’ to study it real good. When he’s sure he’s the center of attention he snaps it shut and looks down at the reverend with a smile almost as fakey as Sister Bertha’s. In his best doctor’s voice he says, ‘Now, what’s all this I hear about you hallucinatin’?”

  “Now just about that very same time, while old Preacher Jones is passin’ the time of day, Father Coughlin was havin’ some real interesting conversations with a bishop. After that there was a couple of his congregation, and then another bishop, then a couple of cardinals, then the bishop again. They all said basically the same thing, which was that they weren’t too happy to hear the father’s plans. ‘Bout what you’d expect. So the father goes off to bed that night kinda wore out from havin’ just gotten over a stroke the week before and now havin’ a whole mess of bishops and cardinals and what-not breathin’ down his neck.

  “Seems the father was the first priest in history to want to become a Baptist, and the church wasn’t real pleased ‘bout it. The father wasn’t quite clear on the details, but it seems he was somehow endangerin’ the souls of millions of little South American children. Or at least that’s what the cardinal said the third time he called. Or maybe it was the fourth.

  “To top it off, there’s this phone call that wakes him up in the middle of the night, and when the father finally manages to find his glasses and answer the thing, there’s all this hissin’ an’ poppin’. Then this real faint voice comes on and says, ‘Iza thees Father Cockleena? Roma calling-ah. Wait-ah moment, pleeze, for-ah Monsignor Giuseppi.’

  �
�Well, the father drops the phone like it was scalding hot and goes tearin’ outta the house in his nightclothes. See, Monsignor Giuseppi’s the Pope’s private secretary, and the last thing the father wanted to hear was how he was breakin’ the Pope’s heart. So he races across town, which wasn’t very far, and pounds on Deacon Tait’s front door till the lights come on.

  “The father’s gotta stop a minute and catch his breath, which ain’t surprisin’, seein’ as how he’s just run ten blocks. And only five days out of the hospital. So he stands there and pants and sweats and finally manages to tell the deacon that he can’t wait one more minute, he’s gotta get baptized right then and there.

  “By this time, a’ course, the Baptists’ve realized what a prize they got on their hands. See, they’ve been gettin’ calls all day from churches as far away as Nebraska, telling ’em it’s the most incredible missionary work since John Smith converted Pocahontas. You gotta remember, now, the father don’t look all that hot. His hair’s standin’ straight up, he’s breathin’ like a busted bellows, he’s all sweaty and trembly, and his face is red as a beet. The deacon imagines the father havin’ another stroke right then and there, and then where would they be? I mean, the father don’t look like he’s gonna last till mornin’. The deacon figures now’s a time for some fast action.

  “So the deacon runs across the street and wakes up Reverend Lee, and it don’t take the reverend more than a coupla minutes to see they gotta move quick. So the two of ’em run down to the end of the block and wake up Deacon Smith. Then the three of them run back for Deacon Peters, who’s a deep sleeper, so they gotta make a lot of noise poundin’ on the door and shoutin’ up at the second floor. Which wakes up Deacon Drysdale there across the street. Not to mention ‘bout fourteen neighborhood dogs and three babies. Who all naturally commence to howl.

  “So by the time the four deacons and the reverend start back toward the front stoop of Deacon Tait’s house, most of that side of town is up and wonderin’ what in tarnation is going on at three o’clock in the mornin’. Lights’re blinkin’ on up and down the streets, windows’re openin’, and people’re shoutin’ back and forth ‘cross the street at each other. Somebody says somethin’ ‘bout calling the police, but nobody hears ’em on account of all the dogs.

  “Sister Bertha’s out there in a nightgown not much bigger’n a circus tent. Deacon Tait’s wife, who weighs in at fifty-five pounds, is wavin’ her arms in time to Sister Bertha’s and runnin’ around in circles for the both of them. The father’s just sittin’ there wishin’ he could die a second time and leave the whole mess behind him like a bad dream. Then up come the deacons and hold a quick conference while the neighborhood dogs kind of get together in a huddle and try to smother the poor father, who ain’t got the energy to push ’em off.

  “The church elders decide there’s enough light from the moon for them to go on down to the creek. It’s about then they realize the whole neighborhood’s watchin’ and wonderin’ at why all the Baptist deacons are standing there on the front stoop in their nightclothes at three o’clock in the morning. Naturally they begin to feel a little foolish. But Sister Bertha, being the pistol she is, decides the best defense is a good offense and shouts out for everybody to start singin’.

  “Well, the first song that came to Sister Bertha’s mind is ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ and before anybody can object, she’s into it full-on. The others join in kinda halfheartedly, but the dogs just love it. So off they go, down to the creek at three o’clock in the morning, and the dogs are all mighty sorry to see ’em leave.

  “When they get down there Father Coughlin sinks onto his knees and collapses, on account of all the commotion. ‘Course, everybody thinks he’s going down for the third time, so they pick him up and proceed to race down the slope to the creek. Naturally, it being pitch black, and the way bein’ just a path through the woods, there are some right interestin’ accidents. Deacon Smith made the acquaintance of a stump and lost his bifocals. Sister Tait got whipped by a tree limb sent back by her husband, and spent a while trying to locate her teeth. Sister Bertha got right intimate with a pine tree, and when they lost the path Brother Tait found it again by rollin’ down the rest of the way and fallin’ in the creek.

  “I guess that’s why they were all in a sorta panic by the time they made the water. So Brother Tait crawls up the bank and Sister Bertha says goodbye to her pine tree, and they each grab an arm and a leg of the father, and they proceed to start swingin’. Reverend Lee catches his breath just as they get to the third swing, which meant he was kinda rushed to get in all the words. But not too rushed, ‘cause they tossed the father right high. Anyway, there was just enough time for a quick ‘IbaptizeyouinthenameoftheFathertheSonandtheHolyGhost’ before Father Coughlin hit the water. Everybody agreed afterward it was a right nice baptism.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday morning dawned gray and cold. On the way out to the car, Jeremy took one look upward and called it perfect snow weather. TJ thought it looked like the sky was going to fall.

  As they approached downtown, Jeremy said, “My last birthday before she took ill, Ella gave me a clock.”

  As always, TJ felt a little helpless when Jeremy mentioned his wife. “You never told me that, Jem.”

  “Never did run worth a durn. Ella’d bought this cheap little alarm clock and taken it apart. I always figured when she put it back together she left out the mainspring or somethin’. It’d run fast for a coupla days, then spin around and go slow as molasses. Ella just loved it. She kept”—Jeremy stopped, swallowed, went on—“had it there beside her bed right to the end. Said it was the first clock that kept time she could understand.”

  TJ searched for something to say, lit on, “Well, why’d she take it apart?”

  “That’s the thing. See, I’d been goin’ through this right tough time in the business. You remember, it was in the middle of that Kerr Lake mess.”

  “I remember,” TJ said, and he did. There had been a lot of sleepless nights over that one, a lot of wondering if Jeremy was going to lose his shirt.

  “Afterwards I worked it out. Ella knew right along she was ill. But she figured I already had enough on my plate, so she just kept quiet about it.”

  TJ nodded, imagined how he would feel if he missed out on Catherine’s last healthy days because of business pressures. All he said was, “That sounds just like her, Jem.”

  Jeremy was quiet for a long time, so long that TJ thought maybe his friend was going to let it drop. His voice was very rough when he continued, “I guess the clock was Ella’s way of tellin’ me that her time had come. She wouldn’t do it for herself. She never said why and I never asked. Wasn’t any need.”

  TJ understood, said, “She didn’t want you punishing yourself afterwards.”

  “Crazy clock had a face with twenty-six hours. Ella said she knew how busy I was, but she’d missed me somethin’ awful. So for my birthday that year she was gonna give me two more hours in my day. Only thing she asked was that one hour be spent with her, and the other one with the Lord.”

  “She was a fine woman, Jem,” TJ said quietly, aching for his friend. “One of the finest.”

  “Been thinkin’ a lot about her ever since I got up here,” Jeremy said, stopping in front of the Old Executive Office Building. “Dreamed about her last night for maybe the fourth or fifth time in the past coupla weeks. Like to think it’s because I’m movin’ closer to the Lord through doin’ His work.”

  TJ decided he would match his friend’s honesty with a little of his own, asked, “Jem, do you think I’ve made a mistake, asking Catherine to come up to Washington?”

  Jeremy kept his eyes forward, nodded as though expecting the question. “Ain’t nowhere else that lady wants to be, TJ. Just give her a little time to get adjusted. I’ll be takin’ her down to the Community this mornin’, maybe that’ll help.” He turned and gave his friend a warm smile. “Now how’s about a prayer ‘fore you go out to meet Goliath.”r />
  ****

  Congressman John Silverwood was a very nervous man. He had not felt like this since his first campaign speech, more than fifteen years ago. But this time, he could not for the life of him figure out why he was so afraid.

  He stepped through the elevator doors and faced a circular receptionist’s desk, located in the middle of a circular room. Doors were placed evenly along the walls, with vibrantly colored modern paintings decorating the spaces between them. The carpet was thick and cream-colored, the walls were papered with what looked to be water-stained silk, and the round reception desk was in polished rosewood. Brass letters attached to the front of the reception desk announced that these were the offices of Shermann, Blinders and Bledd.

  Lighting was recessed, lobby furniture was leather and light wood, and the receptionist was as spectacular as the room. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Shermann.”

  “Of course, sir. Would you happen to be Congressman Silverwood?”

  He nodded, very embarrassed that she would know who he was. It made him wonder how public the knowledge of their deal was.

  “Mr. Shermann left firm instructions to have you shown right in.” She stood, gave him a hundred-watt smile, said, “Would you follow me please, Congressman?”

  The man’s office was simply enormous, a blatant reminder of the perks available to people working in the private sector. The desk was large enough to house a family of six. The coffee table, obviously an antique, appeared to be carved from one solid piece of burl. The beige-leather furniture looked as soft as a baby’s bottom. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed by silk drapes stretched across the entire back wall, and overlooked an inner courtyard and tiny Japanese garden.

  “Mr. Shermann, Congressman Silverwood is here to see you.”

  “And just exactly on time.” Mr. Shermann did his gentle little push from the seat. “I have the greatest respect for busy men who follow closely to their time schedule. It shows they have concern for the time constraints of others.”